Maximum Betrayal
by oOFallOutoftheSkyGirlOo
Summary: No Jeb, I don’t want your pity, your sympathy, or your faith. I don’t really want anything. So I’ll just keep breathing, heart still beating, never truly living. And that’ll be enough. Rated T for language. Warning: mucho angst. Series of oneshots.
1. You Made Me This Way

Disclaimer: I don't own Maximum Ride. James Patterson does.

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Claimer: I do, however, own this plot/idea. Any lyrics I include are mine unless I indicate otherwise in the disclaimer. Do not take them.

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A/N: This will be a collection of angsty first person one-shots of Max and her thoughts on the life that has been forced on her. The flock is present, but these will focus mainly on Max's thoughts and not the others. There may be some Fax in some of the one-shots, but Fax is not the main focus of the collection. Some may be pretty dark; for these, there will be warnings. Enjoy! (Or rather, wallow in Max's misery!)

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Thanks to you, Jeb, I am afraid. That's right, me the unimposable, undefeatable, incredible, invincible Maximum Ride. Afraid. My lack of anything even remotely resembling a normal existence has forced me into growing up, becoming jaded and weary, far beyond my years, and I, who have seen so much, am afraid—actually afraid. 

You taught me a lesson that no one should have to learn. You taught me to never trust. And that lesson—that devastating, all-pervading, damned lesson—will never leave me. I trusted you blindly, more than I ever trusted myself. As long as you flew faster than I fell, everything I knew was blurred. Blurred, so that I could never tell that I was being foolish, so foolish…and therein lies my worst mistake: trusting you. So now I can trust no one, because you taught me what trust leads to. It leads to heartbreak, it leads to dependence, and most of all, it leads to weakness. And I fucking hate weakness.

I can't even trust myself. Everyone, everyone, even if they have nothing else, should be able to trust themselves. But no. Not me.

Deep down inside, I think I knew all along that some day I would break. I knew I had been moving too fast for too long, running off adrenalin and impulse, so afraid—yes afraid, Jeb, that ruined word I would never have to use were it not for you—so afraid to slow down that now I couldn't.

Thanks to you, I have no strength. I, the only among six, had no strength.

Angel, who had been through so much, at six, got up every morning and put a huge smile on her face. But she knew. She knew. She could never escape the world in all of it's pain, because she felt every single broken heart, every ruined dream and damned soul. And she lived every day with a smile.

Gazzy, who at eight had seen things that would lead any grown man insane, never showed weakness. He had composed a mask of hardness and cynicality and strength to hide his fear.

Nudge, bless her heart. She felt everything around her, and it killed her. All the pain in the world convened to her tiny little heart, and bless that heart, she took it. She took it like a warrior, never showing how much it truly, really hurt. This eleven year old held all the pain in the world on her shoulders.

Iggy. His situation was worse than being born blind. He could see, he remembered seeing, and it was torn away from him. Cruelly, everything he had ever known was ripped away and he was left to fend for himself, never knowing, always with that tiny part inside him feeling helpless. But he was strong. So strong.

Fang. He had been through literally hell, taking it all with a fierce determination that made my heart ache. He deserved something so much more, as good and strong and true as he was, but no, he would never know anything more. So many nevers. And I, my never is that I will never know.

And no Jeb, I don't really want your pity. I don't really want your sympathy, or your faith. I don't really want anything. So I'll just keep breathing, heart still beating, wearing the mask I've composed for daytime existence. Never truly living. And that'll be enough.

But Jeb, wherever you are, I hope you can hear me. You made me this way.

Wherever you are, I hope you can hear me. I hate you.

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A/N: Good? Bad? Terrible? A complete joke? Feedback makes the world go round, people. 


	2. Save the World

Disclaimer: I don't own Maximum Ride, James Patterson does. Kthanksdood.

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Claimer: I own this idea, this plot, and 206 bones. None of the aforementioned may be removed.

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A/N: This is a lot less woe-is-me and a lot more Maxesque-sarcastic-cynical-why-me. Much less angsty, but still enough butterflies and rainbows. With a description like that, it's sure to be angst. That was a joke.

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Save the world. They want me to _save the world._

Well, newsflash: maybe if those same people wouldn't have destroyed the world-contaminating it and polluting it, causing war and greif, and, hey, get this one, creating mutant bird-kid freaks with the sole purpose of surviving the impending disaster-it wouldn't need saving.

And, get this folks, maybe, just maybe, _saving the world is not my job. _"Saving the world" wasn't in the job requirement. I never signed up for this. Is there some kind of return policy, because this (this meaning mainly, life) is a complete rip-off.

Whose sick idea was this anyway? Was some random pshyco sitting eating dinner, or taking a walk, or clipping his toenails, and just thought hey, I should graft some bird DNA into seven helpless kids and see how long they last before I send out these lunking wolf people I have laying around to kill them? I mean, kudos for the imagination, props for the resourcefulness, but _why the heck us_?

Also, there's this little problem of inconsistency.

You want me to be destroyed, but you want me to save the world. Completely _ignoring_ the entire imorality of the entire aspect, and focusing only on the concept, um, hello? Someone missed out on the day their school offered free _logic_ courses. You want me alive, or dead. You have to pick; you really can't have it both ways.

Unless you've hatched some sick _new_ idea.

Which, come to think of it, just might be it.

And, oh, here's one of main arguements (I'm arguing with myself. Who argues with themselves? See, I can't even save _myself_, how am I supposed to save the whole world?) the fact that I'm fourteen. Yeah, I kinda have a full-time job of _growing up_. I don't even have my _wisdom teeth _yet, but whatever, that's okay, I guess I'll just accomplish this somehow.

And why aren't _you _saving the world?After all, _you_ are calling all the shots? Huh? Why is this falling into the genetically engineered hands of a fourteen year old girl?

And another thing: what if I don't _want _to save the world? Do I get a say in this? Like, a vote or something? A speech? Part of the electoral college? Anything?

And here's another nother thing: if everything's so perfect now, la di da, By-Half Plan, living in harmony, no war, frolicking in the meadows hee hee haa haa, love each other, no disease or cancer, then _why the heck does the world need saving?_

You've done a pretty good job _saving the world _yourself. Because now _there's nothing left to save._

Done.

Bam.

Problem solved.

Right?

Apparently not. Because that's just not good enough. Ambitious little buggers, aren't you? So I guess I'll just play along, never really knowing what's going on, "saving the world."

Can't Omega save the world? Isn't he supposed to be my superior anyways?

Or how about someone like...the director of Itex?

Or those lunking stupid Erasers?

Or the armed forces?

Canada, maybe?

China?

Well I guess not, because this is _my _duty. Yeah, lucky me.

But, my God, if this world needs saving, it's beyond anything I can do.

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A/N: R. E. V. I. E. W.


End file.
